


Stripped

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Drabble, M/M, how does one write porn, please?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: He's pretty sure Izaya isn't supposed to be here.





	Stripped

 

 

It’s heady. It’s sex at it’s most animalist and raw. It permeates the air and sinks into the skin, and Shiki can feel it in every breath he takes.

He _hates_ it.

“Ain’t she a fine one?” Aozaki says, far too close into Shiki’s personal space so he can be heard over the thumping bass. His breath reeks of beer, but Shiki suspects he’s completely sober, able to enjoy himself regardless. He gets evidence brushing against his side when Aozaki sloppily reaches over him for more beer.

“Isn’t this right up your alley?” Akabayashi says from his other side, voice low and close as Akabayashi’s lips brush his ear, “ _watching?”_

“What did he say?” Aozaki yells, then seems to think better of it. “Akabayashi, shut up. Just cause you like little girls don’t mean everyone do.” Aozaki turns to Shiki, screaming in his face so little droplets of beer rain down. “Ignore him, enjoy it. It’s on the company’s dime after all!” His laugh is good natured and crass and Shiki doesn’t want to be anywhere near it.

Yes, this is just what Shiki wanted. To get horny in a room full of other men. Panting, slobbering men half rubbing themselves through their pants and pawing at a performer that clearly barely wants to be anywhere near this.

Better, let’s do it as a business meeting. Let’s invite people we have to look in the eye come morning light and pretend they haven’t seen you horny as hell as you discuss the future of entire sections of the city.

“This one’s _new,_ ” Aozaki says, bumping his shoulder, like they’re friends, like Shiki should _care._

But this one’s different. This one’s Aozaki’s _type._ Small, thin. Almost delicate-looking. Something that Aozaki’s huge frame has to be careful not to break.

Her face is obscured under long, silky black hair and she’s beautiful. It’s in the way she holds herself, the way she commands attention. The way she, unlike the others that have been on stage, _relishes_ in it.

And unlike the others, she seems to be enjoying herself.

The music continues to thump, rattling Shiki’s bones, and the air continues to reek of sex and booze and make him feel dirty and heady and stuck in the moment and her hips sway in time.

She hasn’t got much in the way of curves, but that’s never bothered Shiki much.

It’s hard to see her face under her long, _long_ hair, but it doesn’t matter. There’s something in the way she leans on one hip, the way she dangles her unbuttoned blouse off her shoulder, like she knows your undivided attention is on her, like she knows you’ll like what you see. The way she swings and moves and stretches.

And it’s not fair, he can’t help it. He’s attuned to that kind of body: slim, pale, hidden muscles moving subtly under skin, a lithe grace that seems almost divine and pure compared to the setting.

It’s with the beat thrumming in his chest that he watches her work and a stirring of _want_ makes it self known, twinned with a stir of _familiarity._

He watches as she dips and weaves and makes hurling her body weight around a pole look _effortless,_ and his breath catches as he tosses her head back, long hair flowing, and back arched, and for the first time, he gets a glimpse of her face.

 _His_ face.

His face that should be at home by now, eating all the food out of his fridge.

 

“I heard you liked my performance,” Izaya says in a bizarre falsetto, walking over in heels tall and sharp enough to kill a man, and a lingerie set Shiki’s never seen, hair once again covering his face.

“Ah, Shiki, you naughty dog,” Akabayashi says, “what’ll Izaya think?”

Shiki pretends to ignore him as Izaya folds into his lap, careful of his angles for once.

“I just want to talk,” Shiki says as low as he can, under the watchful eye of the bouncer. Izaya feels as he always does in his lap, a solid presence that demands to be felt and seen and heard.

Izaya stares at him with glittering eyes from under his fake bangs, eyes almost as hard as the gemstones they resemble. “You’re not supposed to be here,” Izaya says as he starts to _move._ He’s sinuous grace, he always is, and it’s never failed to get to him. To make his heart beat faster and his blood pump and his fingers ache to _touch._

But that’s in privacy, where the show is for him and him alone. Here, Izaya’s a spectacle. _He’s_ a spectacle, and he refuses to be a part of the show. He keeps his breathing even and his muscles relaxed even as Izaya presses against him and arches over him and strokes and presses and _moans._

Izaya resettles in his lap, and there’s a flash of frustration in his eyes, a small twist of his lips and.

Shiki didn’t know Izaya could _move_ like that. If he was sinuous before, he’s boneless now. His own fingers twist and tease in his clothes, seeming moments away from ripping them off.

Izaya stops again, seated in Shiki’s lap. This time, he’s ever so slightly flushed, taking short, sharp breathes.

His eyes are defiant as he meets Shiki’s. But whatever he finds there seems to mollify him, and an entirely different emotion takes way: satisfaction.

“Ah, not so unaffected, are we?” Izaya breathes, slinking out of Shiki’s lap with a sway in his hips and a smirk on his face.

“Can’t even so much as get it up? After that?” Aozaki slaps Shiki’s shoulder. Hard. “Maybe it’s not Akabayashi with the bizarre tastes, eh?”

But Akabayashi whispers in his ear, “I thought you were going to devour your boy right here in this filthy booth with that look in your eye. Save it for the bedroom, huh? Nobody needs to see that.”

He tries to get Izaya alone. Tries to request a private room. But Izaya seems intent on rebuffing him at every turn, until the bouncers start to cast him dirty eyes that tell him his money and the tattoos peaking out of the edges are his sleeves are the only things keeping him here.

But Shiki knows how these places _work._

He greases the right palms and he’s golden and Izaya’s mouth twists into irritation as he’s summoned into one of the private rooms.

“Oh,” Izaya says, voice breathy and high. “I think I should be flattered that you’ve taken such an interest, ne?” 

He’s reclining on the couch, fingers trailing down his own body, like Shiki needed any help remembering where’s he’s supposed to look.

“I’m always interested in you,” Shiki says, sitting on the couch and dragging Izaya into his lap. He goes willingly. “Especially when you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

Izaya’s fingers twist into the chain at his throat. “I could say the same to you. You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“Celebration of new casino,” Shiki says as his fingers skate the edges of Izaya’s panties. They’re soft and flimsy and would rip under his fingers with minimal effort, if he so chose. “I texted you.”

“Client wanted a clandestine venue,” Izaya returns, fingers combing through the short hairs at the back of Shiki’s neck. “Never showed, of course. The ones that want me in drag never do show themselves.”

“What a waste of an evening.”

“Not quite yet, ne?”

Kissing Izaya is always a surprise. If he expected Izaya to go soft-pliant, he’s bound to wind up with teeth and tongue and claws in his shoulder. If he expects a fight, Izaya goes kitten-like, nothing but gentle licks and little moans.

So he expects neither and gets both: rough and soft in turns, tugs at his hair that hurt so beautifully and squirming in his lap that just doesn’t feel as it ought for some reason—

Oh.

Shiki runs his hands up Izaya’s back as he gives Izaya a moment to make adjustments and pull his dick out of wherever he’s hidden it.

He’s a polite lover, after all.

And then there it is, that familiar feeling of Izaya’s cock pressing against his as Izaya rocks his hips in small motions he can’t see to help. He’s pleasure-seeking, all _take,_ and Shiki doesn’t mind. Not when it’s so satisfying to _give._

 _“_ In the table-thing,” Izaya breathes into his ear, hands busy trying to find some way into his shirt.

Shiki sends a hand off to go explore while the other remains busy teasing at the edge of Izaya’s hip bone, thumb massaging circles into the flesh just above where Izaya wants it.

His hand discovers a bottle and a collection of packets that crinkle under his fingertips.

Izaya is all wiry muscle and _likes_ to be manhandled, pushed _just_ beyond his limits of flexibility. So Shiki does, pressing him into the couch pushing until the tension in his legs is just so, until Izaya’s squirming but not grimacing.

His hand is tight on Iaya’s leg, enough to leave faint bruises. Izaya will never say, but he likes it, Shiki has seen him in bathroom, running his fingers gingerly over the marks the ropes made in his skin, humming gently.

Izaya’s lingerie rips under his fingers like he thought it would, and flutters gently down, out of sight out of mind.

“Oooh, very caveman of you,” Izaya says, arching his back, wiggling his hips.

It’s all simple from there. Easy, familiar. Izaya with his fluttering eye lids, desperately trying to keep his eyes open, trying to see everything.

He’s surpringly not given to complaining, not even when Shiki’s a bit rough. Not when Shiki bends him in half and snaps his hips harder.

He just claws his hands into Shiki’s shoulders, back nails biting. He’d be leaving marks of his own if there was enough clear skin to show it.

Shiki shutters, clenching his teeth.

And Izaya’s hazy, lust-glazed eyes are victorious and taunting when Shiki’s hips stop moving.

Not that he lasts particularly long either, when Shiki gets his mouth around him, coming squirming and clawing and moaning.

Shiki rests his head on Izaya’s chest, and long, long fingers card through his hair.

“You ruined my _outfit_ ,” Izaya says, and Shiki can hear the pout.

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Generous of you,” there’s a definite tinge of amusement. “But I can’t work more tonight.”

“A true tragedy.”

“I’ll be fired,” Izaya says, voice heavy with false regret.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Shiki says, handing his coat over.

Izaya wraps himself in it, luxuriating like it's not just a suit coat that barely hits his thigh. “Oh, well, how could I say no to an offer like that?”


End file.
